


Trust Fall

by theTabularium



Category: Hot Fuzz (2007), The Cornetto Trilogy
Genre: Actual!Angel, Angst, Gen, Platonic Relationships, Wingfic, implied - Freeform, in which Sgt Angel is an actual angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:24:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6351496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theTabularium/pseuds/theTabularium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sgt Nicholas Angel is exactly what his name says, literally. From the moment he steps foot in Sanford he's sure the other side has the jump on him, that everybody knows his secret. He's on his own... or is he? Set from the Sergeant's arrival in Sanford up until the NWA's big reveal. Implied wingfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Fall

“It would appear the heavens have opened.”

Nicholas almost dropped his Peace Lily- had he been found out?  
There’d been no word from his superiors about anybody in the town, but it was so far West of London it was practically in Wales. Maybe there was a miscommunication being so close to the border? Maybe he was just tired from the long haul into Sandford.

 He took a second, shrugging slightly to double check that he hadn’t let himself slip before swallowing and stepping to the counter.

“I was hoping to check in.” He stated, voice less steady then he hoped.  
“Check in? But you’ve always been here.”  
“Excuse me?” He whispered, throat tight with panic.

The older lady at the desk looked up abruptly, earrings flashing, blinking owlishly through her glasses. “Oh, I’m sorry! I thought you were my husband!”  
Nicholas said nothing, still shocked, assuming she meant the man slumbering by the fire behind them.  
“You must be Sergeant Angel!” The woman continued.  
“Ah- Yes, I am.” He stammered, finally finding his voice again.  
“I’m Joyce Cooper. I trust you had a pleasant trip? Facist.” She stated without breaking her grin.  
Nicholas was grateful the Peace Lily was on the counter because he really would have dropped it. “I beg your pardon?”  
“ _‘System of Government characterized by extreme dictatorship.’_ Seven across.” Cooper gestured to the crossword below.  
Relieved, Nicholas corrected her. “Oh, I see. It’s _‘facism’_.”  
“Facism.” Cooper almost crooned the word. “Wonderful. We’ve put you in the Castle Suite. Bernard will escort you up there.”

“Well, actually,” Nicholas glanced back at the comatose man. “I could probably make my own way up. Hag.”  
Mrs Cooper’s perfect hostess smile faltered. “I beg your pardon?”  
“ ‘ _Evil old woman considered frightful or ugly.’_ It’s twelve down.” He nodded down at the paper.  
The smile resumed and Cooper slipped his room key onto the counter as if to reward him. “Oh, bless you!”  
Nicholas took the key, dipped his head by way of good night and turned smartly on his heel. He hastened up the stairs, glad to be away from the dangerous crossword.

The room was, at a glance, exactly the same size as his lodgings at the academy. The en suite was a nice expansion – the communal bathrooms were hellscapes of their own right. The Peace Lily on the bedside completed the very vague sense of security found in familiarity.  
Nicholas stood for a moment, soaking in the silence of the night. There was no rain against the windowpane, it must have stopped. For all the hours spent in travel, he was far too tired to sleep after the shock of almost being found out.

Grabbing his jacket, Nicholas made for the door. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well get the lay of the land.

  

* * *

 

“Nicholas, hello! Reverend Shooter.” A man, bereft of the collar of his position, appeared at his elbow. “I wanted to ask you, would you read a homily at Sunday Service?”  
“That might be a little hypocritical of me, Reverend.” Nicholas was quick to put a stop to that.  
“Oh, you’re an atheist?”

Nicholas felt the room turn on him, eyes hungry, and hastened to reply. “No, I’m… I’m open to the concept of religion, I’m just not entirely convinced by it.” He stated. Blunt honesty seemed the best option here, such towns were gossip mills, and the new Sergeant turning down a hominy without a clear answer would grow like a weed. At least he wouldn’t be ostricised for atheism. In London he’d never have to give a defense, let alone a homily.  
“Oh! You’re an agnostic?” The Reverend said, almost conspiratorially.  
“Oh, I think I’ve go a cream for that!” Dr Thatcher quipped. There was a ripple of polite laughter around the room.

Later on, the conversation would pull at him as he lay in bed, willing himself to sleep as he stared into the ceiling, working the handgrippers in silence.  
Nicholas wouldn’t admit it, but he’d been questioning the concept of religion for years. Certainly, he was raised in a Christian home but he’d grown out of it once he’d joined the Service. Besides, he’d never found he answers he’d been looking for in religion. Religion said his name slaughtered firstborns, enemy armies, laid waste to cities. The thought of it made his shoulders itch.  
_But it’s in your name,_ People would tell him, _Your number!_  
He couldn’t tell them they were right without getting tangled in just how _wrong_ they were. But the Rules he found in Churches were less about helping everybody, and more about helping a certain type of person. In the Service he found something that he could sit with – protecting people. All people. Someone had said he ought to be a paramedic, but he just wasn’t geared right for it. Just like, apparently, he wasn’t geared for relationships like people expected him to be. Like Janine had told him – he just couldn’t switch off. Maybe it was in his name?

Angel sighed, doing a last slow set on the handgripper and forced himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

“I’m not made of eyes!” Danny had remarked offhandedly after he’d apprehended Peter. 

Nicholas mulled over the comment, once again staring blindly into the ceiling of his suite as he worked sets on handgrips like so many nights that went before.  
It was obscure, but no doubt Biblical. He suppressed a shudder – he was observant and yes, past teammates had laughingly suggested he had eyes in the back of his head, but covered in them? No, that amount of alertness was reserved for higher ranks.

  _Then again,_ he attempted to console himself, _it was Danny_. Surely if anyone knew, if anyone knew at all, it wouldn’t be Danny. The man was far more interested in living vicariously through snippets of Nicholas’s time with SO 19.

No amount of sets that night could ease the niggling doubt that somehow, it wasn’t just an innocent comment on the Constable’s behalf. He couldn’t trust himself, he couldn’t trust a soul, damned or not, in the village.

If he fell, there would be nobody to catch him.

 

* * *

 

“I had to prove to myself that the law could be proper and righteous, and for the good of human kind.” Of that, Nicholas was convinced. That part of his name he would own up to – first name, not surname – was after all ‘the victory of the people’.

Whatever the Sandford PD was fronting as, it certainly wasn’t the Service. They all thought it was, though their idea of law was about as sharp as their idea of theatre. He’d screamed himself hoarse at the Andes but it was just the wind howling at mountains. He could pour his pension into the swear jar, fix the Church roof three times over, it wouldn’t matter.  
It was just about when he was chasing the figure from Leslie Tiller’s murder scene and they appeared to blink across great distances each time he lost sight of them that he really started to feel like he was loosing. That the entire village was in on it and determined to drive him mad, one way or the other. That they plainly ignored something not quite right, something unnatural.  
Nicholas knew he could have closed that distance just as fast but there were Rules the other side wasn’t worried about flouting. There were always Rules: Benefit of the doubt. Innocent until proven guilty - not that he didn’t have a suspect.

Skinner was paramount to a Duke, the heart of the matter, the source of greasy chaos soaked into every part of the town. He was _so_ sure… or was he?

 

* * *

 

He was wrong.

Oh, _God_ , was he wrong.

Nicholas didn’t care now. He didn’t care if they all knew, if they strung him up and blasted it from the Church’s broken towers.  
He was hit and going down in flames anyway.

 

* * *

 

“I was like you once. I believed in the immutable word of the law.” Frank Butterman stepped through the archway. The bitter night air was suddenly filled with the acrid scent of charred feathers. Nicholas was too shocked to gag.

Nicholas’s knees almost gave out. The Inspector- the Inspector had fallen and he’d dragged the entire town with him. A hand on his shoulder spun him round to see –

“Danny, _no!_ ”

A surge and suddenly he had a knife to the Constable’s throat. “Back off- _Back off!_ Or I swear to God you’ll be explaining how Danny tripped over and accidentally cut of his own head!” He spat over the man’s shoulder with vehemence driven by pure desperation.  
“Come on, Nicholas.” The Inspector drawled. “You haven’t got it in you.”  
Spurred on by his words, the NWA swelled closer, shadowy forms bristling with improvised weaponry.  
“I mean it!” Nicholas barked. His knife hand wavered and faltered. He dropped it with a curse. “Shit!”

 

Nicholas ran. He ran, too scared to go any faster, shock too heavy on his shoulders, too shaken to do anything but put one foot in front of the other.

Frank was right. He didn’t have it in him – he never did. The fatality with the overdosing addict had never left him. He was sure it had marred him; a dark streak he would never wash out, that everyone could see. He was no slaughterer of firstborns, he razed no cities – there was no victory there.  
The ground gave out below his pounding feet and swallowed him in a fetid hellmouth. A maze of damning horrors later, coughing and spluttering, he scrambled back to the surface.

Hard torchlight blinded him and he slammed to a stop. A blade glinted in Danny’s hand.

“Danny-!”

The impact sent him staggering backwards a step. All the fight ebbed out of him. If the only person he could trust had done _this_ , they had won. The town had leeched all the fight from him –

_Wait._

There was no pain. He thought it would hurt, being stabbed again.  
The knife was stopped, lodged in his notebook. The notebook _Danny_ had put in his pocket. Nicholas regarded Danny with dulled confusion. The faintest ember of hope sparked.

He fell, desperately hoping that somehow Danny might catch him.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, Nicholas is an actual angel and he's sure there's chaos at work in Sanford. A lot of angst and desperation, mostly a drabble as I rewatched the movie with Actual!Angel Nicholas in mind, trying to think about how it would feel... A study piece for a larger fic in the works.
> 
> Formatting note: Originally written and formatted in Word, translation ot Ao3 has blown out the format so I've had to re-paragraph it which has made the pacing of a few parts a little different. Oh well.


End file.
